


C is for Claustrophobia

by moodymarshmallow



Series: Theron Mahariel, A to Z [Canon] [3]
Category: Dragon Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:05:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	C is for Claustrophobia

I have never hated anything more than I hate the way this stupid, worthless sickness makes me feel small and weak. I so badly want to sleep indoors when it is cold and not wake up kicking and scratching because I feel like I can no longer breathe. I want to rest beside my lover without waking him up with nightmares of windowless tombs.    
  
I am full up of it, like it is in my blood as much as the corruption. I feel it there, when I cross a threshold, when I take a step down towards the Deep Roads. It has me like an a jealous, violent lover, and holds its fingers around my neck when I try to disobey it.    
  
There has never been an explanation for this phobia, not one that I can dredge up from my childhood or afterwards. I have been trapped in dark, ugly places, but only since leaving my clan, and I apparently slept outside the aravels for years before I even remember doing so. Perhaps it is like Merrill’s fear of spiders, or Pol’s fear of snakes—something inexplicably part of me for no reason other than the fact that it is there.    
  
That is not to say that it hasn’t improved, it has. Zevran has helped more than I think he could ever realize. That I can wake and feel his arms before I start to sink into that cold whirlpool makes it easier to climb out. When he is not there, I can touch the earring and imagine that he is. That works, but only just. I have always known that I would rely on a lover, that I would give myself over wholly, though I never could have imagined the impact of a sweet sleepy face, or of pulling love letters out from under my pillow to re-read them when it’s not there.    
  
But it still owns me, just maybe not as much as Zevran does.


End file.
